Wilberforce (59 page)

—What is it, Morgan?

—What does
sui generis
mean? I do know, but I can't quite …

—
Sui generis
, of its own kind or species?

Morgan thought, but he couldn't see what it had to do with Spaulding, or coffins.

—Where have you been hearing it? the Bishop asked with an infinite delicacy.

And so he tried to relate something of the dreams, but when he tried to describe the aftermath, the phenomenon of delayed terror and recognition, his explanation sounded like one of Veronica's stories.

—It's daft, he concluded. You get confused dreaming. I was probably afraid during the dream, not after.

—I don't believe you're confused at all. You're seeing things more clearly than you have in some time. You didn't believe that
sui generis
meant … what was it?

—Pine box.

Saying the words made him cold again.

—You're supposed to be sorting me out, not letting me go off my dot.

—I can understand why you were shivering, the Bishop said, but there's every sign of hope.

—
Hope?

—You weren't deceived. The attack failed.

A wave of relief, and an undertow—

—Attack?

The Bishop held his gaze.

—That's an awfully dramatic metaphor for some bad dreams.

—It isn't metaphor, the Bishop said.

Something poked his ribs. He sat up:

—And now you're going to tell me a heap of theology, I suppose.

The Bishop said nothing.

—Well, Morgan said, whatever you say about all that teaching and healing and sacrificing, it didn't help Spaulding. He's still dead.

—He is.

—So what has he got to say to that, your spectacular Jesus?

The Bishop sighed, but not a sigh of impatience, more a sigh of pain:

—He suffered.

A ghost of a smile pregnant with compassion:

—And he is still suffering with us.

—Why do you have to make everything so abstract? Morgan snapped. And if you try to tell me she's really alive, larking about like an angel somewhere, I'll …

The Bishop caught his gaze, as if he'd left his trunk open and his tuck box unlocked.

—I mean …

—Your mother is dead, the Bishop said, as dead as the host in the valley of bones.

He wanted to argue until the Bishop forgot what he'd said. But the Bishop looked as if he'd finally seen the truth; he looked as if he thought Morgan knew what came next.

 

48

He fell asleep after all. He didn't dream again. The Bishop sat beside him that night, and when Morgan woke, the Bishop was dressed, reading a book by the window. Morgan's entire body hurt, as if he were a tyro set upon by the Fourth. His throat stung. His eyes ached.

—You'll want a bath, the Bishop said.

He left the room and returned shortly to report that Mrs. Hallows was drawing one in the upper bathroom.

—Not the one in St. Anne's. Don't worry.

Relief at the news mixed with shame at his fear, which belonged to the night. In the light of morning with the sound of shears outside the window, he had no business on a divan in the Bishop's bedroom. He wasn't the Bishop's child, and it had been wet to wish for it.

—I was thinking an outing today, the Bishop said. Could you manage that?

—I'm not an invalid, he croaked.

—I didn't mean to suggest it. Very well, then, breakfast in half an hour. Chop-chop.

*   *   *

He bathed without incident. Breakfast passed in silence. They ate porridge, which Morgan found singularly satisfying. He had thought the Academy's porridge had ruined the foodstuff for life, but he was mistaken. Perhaps if he could eat bowl upon bowl of it, with the summer honey Mrs. Hallows set out in a dish, it would soothe his throat and fortify the muscles in his eyes, which had so failed him lately.

They had not finished eating when the doorbell rang. Presently, Elizabeth breezed into the dining room, dispelling their silence and everything that had passed between them.

She chattered away to her father, bidding Morgan a simple
Good morning
. She did not like the pallor of her father's cheeks, but she was relieved to hear that Mr. Rollins had promised to come by this morning. She hoped her father would mind his physician and, once the man had left, catch up on his resting.

Morgan's chest sank in disappointment. He'd liked the sound of an outing. If the Bishop was going to rest, what would become of him all the long day?

—Come along, you, Elizabeth said, kissing her father on both cheeks. Yes, you.

Morgan looked up uncertainly.

—You can't expect to monopolize my father. Besides—

Her tone softened:

—there's something I need help with. And I was quite hoping you'd be able to do it.

 

49

Elizabeth—Mrs. Fairclough as he forced himself to think of her lest his tongue slip—drove a motorcar. He had never ridden in a motorcar with a woman behind the wheel. Mrs. Fairclough drove competently; at least she kept to the left, maintained a civilized speed, and applied the brakes without violence. The wind blew noisily in the windows, precluding conversation. They'd traveled a few miles when she brought the vehicle to a halt beside a green.

—Here we are.

Morgan decided he would adopt a policy of asking no questions. Demanding explanations merely advertised one's ignorance and emphasized the authority people had over one. When someone wanted him to understand, someone could explain. Until then, he would drift.

Mrs. Fairclough led him across the green to a village school, whose mistress appeared to be Mrs. Fairclough's bosom friend. The woman had charge of a crowd of little boys who spoke with country accents and wore no uniforms. They were in the midst of a spelling lesson, and the air crackled with pent-up boy energy. They seemed cheerful, but Morgan had the sense that fisticuffs could erupt at any moment, if only to relieve the tension.

Mrs. Fairclough was introducing him to the Dame:

—Wilberforce comes from the public school where my brother will be Headmaster next term.

The mention of her brother elicited excitement, as did the words
public school
. Then Mrs. Fairclough was speaking of cricket, and somehow she was giving them the impression that he, Morgan, knew everything there was to know of cricket, and not only knew it, but could and would impart it. Today.

The Dame was overjoyed by the suggestion, as were the boys. She rang the bell to signal their break, and Morgan had to accept the invitation to accompany them outdoors.

One of the older boys introduced himself as Kemp. Kemp proposed to show Morgan their equipment, which consisted of some battered stumps, two cricket bats, three balls, and two sets of pads lacking adequate straps. Some of the boys occupied themselves wrestling to the ground, but a group of five or six hovered near Morgan. He deduced that Kemp was their self-appointed leader. The boy possessed an intangible command, probably thanks to his nerve and his ease with words. Morgan realized that his own presence posed a challenge to Kemp's rule, but having seized upon Morgan as his property, Kemp was attempting to neutralize the threat.

Kemp took charge of the match, sorting boys into sides and assigning the fielders positions and the batsmen an order. He hammered the stumps into the ground with a bat before Morgan could stop him, and then he took a ball and headed to the crease.

His bowling wasn't disastrous. He had the line, and he had the length, but he had the same line and length every time. He'd assigned most of the smaller boys to the batting side, and they showed little flair. It didn't help, Morgan thought, that Kemp berated them with a nearly ceaseless stream of advice. A few hit the ball, and the incompetence of the fielders allowed them twenty-six runs before Kemp bowled the side out.

The Dame had disappeared with Mrs. Fairclough, and Kemp presided over the changing of sides, giving the ball over to the tallest man on the other side, a wan boy who looked as though he needed to start eating breakfast on a regular basis. Kemp maintained his commentary as that boy, called Fetch, bowled. Unlike Kemp, Fetch's bowling was erratic. Morgan feared for the safety of the batsmen, especially given the ill-fitting pads.

A timid boy with wild hair approached the crease and, cajoled by Kemp, faffed about with the pads. The boy did not look at Morgan, but Morgan sensed him wanting to look, as if he possessed a telegram but could not, for fear of interception, transmit it.

—Come on, Twist! Kemp said. Do you think Wilberforce has come all this way to watch you mess about?

Twist left one of the pads behind and took his place before the wicket. Fetch narrowed his eyes and bowled. The ball hit Twist on the unpadded leg; he stifled a yelp, and Kemp unleashed a string of abuse. Was Twist there to watch grass grow or to defend a wicket? He tried out other gems of sarcasm the other boys found witty, but which Morgan considered tedious in the extreme. He'd encountered plenty of domineering boys and bullies, which he had no doubt Kemp could be when he wasn't trying to impress, but this was the first time Morgan had observed the condition in boys so much younger than himself, boys he could in fact influence.

—That'll do, he said.

He approached Twist, affixed the missing pad, and arranged his body into a decent stance.

—Keep your eye on the ball, he said. Use your feet, and follow through there.

He guided the boy's arms. They were small and thin enough to break.

—Good.

Twist blushed at his word. Embarrassed, Morgan left him and approached the bowler.

—Fetch, is it? Would you mind awfully?

The boy glanced to Kemp, but Kemp was busy repeating and mangling Morgan's advice to Twist. Morgan took a gamble.

—Right, you lot! he called.

He jogged over to the batsmen. They gathered around him, eager yet wary, unsure of their allegiance.

—You can't come in without getting ready.

They looked at him uncomprehending.

—A proper batsman never comes in unless he's fully warmed up.

He demonstrated the stretches Mr. Grieves had assigned him. He told them to work on those, well away from the distractions of the crease, and he assigned Kemp to oversee them.

Back at the crease, he relieved Fetch of the ball and nodded to Twist. Then he took a light run-up and bowled the most direct ball he could. It bounced, Twist swung, and his bat connected, sending the ball past another of the little boys, who watched it go.

—Run! Morgan called.

Twist and the lackadaisical fielder ran.

*   *   *

Morgan bowled to the remaining batsmen and observed the fielding of the rest. They were small and untrained, but not entirely without hope. The biggest impediment to their development, Morgan thought, was Kemp's tiresome combination of criticism and interference. Morgan had managed not to alienate Kemp, but it had taken every ounce of restraint, invention, and diplomacy that he possessed. How Grieves coped, particularly with one as obstreperous as himself, Morgan had no idea. It was no wonder he'd bowled hard enough to kill him.

The Dame called them in to their dinners, which the boys had brought from home in tins and cloths. Morgan, ravenous, wondered whether Mrs. Fairclough was going to take him somewhere and feed him, but before she had stopped chatting to the Dame, several of the boys, including Twist, dragged him to their tables and presented him with bits of their dinners. He straddled a bench and devoured sandwich squares, apple slices, biscuits, and pastry corners. They flooded him with questions about cricket, interrupting each other before he could answer. He cut through the hubbub and addressed his first protégé:

—You're Twist, then?

—We only call him Twist.

—It isn't his real name.

—Full of surprises, are you?

—Like Oliver Twist.

—Because he's an orphan.

—Shut up, Brasenose.

—Shut up, Brasenose.

—
Shut up
, Brasenose.

—Well, he is.

—Half orphan.

—He's from the orphan hospital.

—Shut up, Brasenose.

—Shut
up
, Brasenose.

Morgan regretted asking. He looked for Kemp, but Kemp had surrounded himself with a coterie of the older boys, presumably to make it plain that he hadn't wanted to sit with Morgan in the first place. The boys around Morgan were still silencing the one they called Brasenose, and Twist was staring at the ground, his sandwich idle in his hand.

—I'm a half orphan, too, Morgan said.

Twist's eyes remained downcast; his sandwich twitched.

—So am I! said another boy near him. But I don't come from the hospital like he does.

—Shut up! several urged sotto voce.

—Boys, said the Dame, suddenly in their midst, we have spoken more than once, have we not, about that expression and how vulgar it is?

—Yes, miss, they murmured.

—What do we say when we wish someone to stop speaking?

—
Be quiet
, they murmured.

—That's right. Or, if we feel particularly vexed, we might say,
Hold your tongue
.

—Yes, miss.

Morgan wondered idly if any of them knew how to swear.

—Now, I'm afraid that Wilberforce has to leave us for today—

Groans of disappointment erupted through the room.

—but perhaps if you are very lucky, he will agree to come back another day.

—Anytime, Morgan said.

The Dame looked pleasantly surprised.

—Well, she said, if you mean it.

—I always mean what I say.

If only it were true.

—In that case, she said, it would seem that you are the answer to our prayers. Isn't that right, boys?

Apparently, it was right. They all began again to speak at once. Morgan discerned the words
match
,
Croffs
, and
parish day
. The Dame eventually made them speak one at a time, guiding them in sketching for Morgan their circumstances: